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    The Adrien English Mysteries
    The Adrien English Mysteries
    The Adrien English Mysteries
    Ebook786 pages12 hours

    The Adrien English Mysteries

    By Josh Lanyon

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    About this ebook

    For the first time, books 1 -3 of The Adrien English Mysteries collected in one volume!

    Fatal Shadows - When his former best friend and employee is murdered following a very public argument, bookseller and sometimes mystery writer Adrien English finds himself suspected of murder.

    A Dangerous Thing - Adrien English arrives at the Pine Shadow Ranch only to find a corpse in his driveway. By the time the unfriendly local sheriffs arrive, the body has disappeared.

    The Hell You Say - It’s Christmas time and the “ill-starred and bookish” bookseller and occasional mystery writer must contend with a Satanic cult, a handsome university professor and his on-again/off-again relationship with the eternally conflicted LAPD Detective Jake Riordan.

    And, as ever, murder...

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJosh Lanyon
    Release dateDec 12, 2017
    ISBN9781945802362
    The Adrien English Mysteries
    Author

    Josh Lanyon

    Author of 100+ titles of Gay Mystery and M/M Romance, Josh Lanyon has built a literary legacy on twisty mystery, kickass adventure, and unapologetic man-on-man romance. Her work has been translated into twelve languages. She is an EPIC Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist (twice for Gay Mystery), an Edgar nominee, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads All Time Favorite M/M Author award.

    Read more from Josh Lanyon

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      Book preview

      The Adrien English Mysteries - Josh Lanyon

      Life will show you masks that are worth all your carnivals.

      Ralph Waldo Emerson, Illusions

      Chapter One

      Cops before breakfast. Before coffee even. As if Mondays weren’t bad enough. I stumbled downstairs, unlocked the glass front doors, shoved back the ornate security gate and let them in: two plainclothes detectives.

      They identified themselves with a show of badges. Detective Chan was older, paunchy, a little rumpled, smelling of Old Spice and cigarettes as he brushed by me. The other one, Detective Riordan, was big and blond, with a neo-Nazi haircut and tawny eyes. Actually, I had no idea what color his eyes were, but they were intent and unblinking, as though waiting for a sign of activity from the mouse hole.

      I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Mr. English, Detective Chan said as I started down the aisle of books toward my office.

      I kept walking, as though I could walk away from whatever they were about to tell me.

      ...concerning an employee of yours. A Mr. Robert Hersey.

      I slowed, stopped there in front of the Gothic section. A dozen damsels in distress (and flimsy negligees) caught my eyes. I turned to face the cops. They wore what I would describe as official expressions.

      What about Robert? There was a cold sinking in my gut. I wished I’d stopped for shoes. Barefoot and unshaven, I felt unbraced for bad news. Of course it was bad news. Anything to do with Robert was bound to be bad news.

      He’s dead. That was the tall one, Riordan. He-Man.

      Dead, I repeated.

      Silence.

      You don’t seem surprised.

      Of course I’m surprised. I was, wasn’t I? I felt kind of numb. What happened? How did he die?

      They continued to eye me in that assessing way.

      He was murdered, Detective Chan said.

      My heart accelerated, then began to slug against my ribs. I felt the familiar weakness wash through me. My hands felt too heavy for my arms.

      I need to sit down, I said.

      I turned and headed back toward my office, reaching out to keep myself from careening into the crowded shelves. Behind me came the measured tread of their feet, just audible over the singing in my ears.

      I pushed open my office door, sat heavily at the desk and opened a drawer, groping inside. The phone on my desk began to ring, jangling loudly in the paperback silence. I ignored it, found my pills, managed to get the top off, and palmed two. Washed them down with a swallow of whatever was in the can sitting there from yesterday. Tab. Warm Tab. It had a bracing effect.

      Sorry, I told LA’s Finest. Go ahead.

      The phone, which had stopped ringing, started up again. Aren’t you going to answer that? Riordan inquired after the fourth ring.

      I shook my head. How did --? Do you know who --?

      The phone stopped ringing. The silence was even more jarring.

      Hersey was found stabbed to death last night in the alley behind his apartment, Chan answered.

      Riordan said, without missing a beat, What can you tell us about Hersey? How well did you know him? How long had he worked for you?

      I’ve known Robert since high school. He’s worked for me for about a year.

      Any problems there? What kind of an employee was he?

      I blinked up at Chan. He was okay, I said, at last focusing on their questions.

      What kind of friend was he? Riordan asked.

      Sorry?

      Were you sleeping with him?

      I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

      Were you lovers? Chan asked, glancing at Riordan.

      No.

      But you are homosexual? That was Riordan, straight as a stick figure, summing me up with those cool eyes, and finding me lacking in all the right stuff.

      I’m gay. What of it?

      And Hersey was homosexual?

      And two plus two equals a murder charge? The pills kicking in, I felt stronger. Strong enough to get angry. We were friends, that’s all. I don’t know who Robert was sleeping with. He slept with a lot of people.

      I didn’t quite mean it that way, I thought as Chan made a note. Or did I? I still couldn’t take it in. Robert murdered? Beaten up, yes. Arrested, sure. Maybe even dead in a car crash—or by autoerotic misadventure. But murdered? It seemed so unreal. So...Film At Eleven.

      I kept wanting to ask if they were sure. Probably everyone they interviewed asked the same question.

      I must have been staring fixedly into space because Riordan asked abruptly, Are you all right, Mr. English? Are you ill?

      I’m all right.

      Could you give us the names of Hersey’s—uh—men friends? Chan asked. The too-polite men friends put my teeth on edge.

      No. Robert and I didn’t socialize much.

      Riordan’s ears pricked up. I thought you were friends?

      We were. But—

      They waited. Chan glanced at Riordan. Though Chan was older I had the impression that Riordan was the main man. The one to watch out for.

      I said cautiously, We were friends, but Robert worked for me. Sometimes that put a strain on our relationship.

      Meaning?

      Just that we worked together all day; we wanted to see different people at night.

      Uh huh. When was the last time you saw Mr. Hersey?

      We had dinner— I paused as Chan seemed about to point out that I had just said Robert and I didn’t socialize. I finished lamely, And then Robert left to meet a friend.

      What friend?

      He didn’t say.

      Riordan looked skeptical. When was this?

      When was what?

      Patiently, long-suffering professional to civilian, he re-phrased, When and where did you have dinner?

      The Blue Parrot on Santa Monica Blvd. It was about six.

      And when did you leave?

      Robert left about seven. I stayed and had a drink at the bar.

      You have no idea who he left to meet? A first name? A nickname?

      No.

      Do you know if he was going home first or if they were meeting somewhere?

      I don’t know. I frowned. They were meeting somewhere, I think. Robert looked at his watch and said he was late; it would take him ten minutes. If he had been heading back home it would have taken him half an hour.

      Chan jotted all this in the small notebook.

      Anything else you can tell us, Mr. English? Did Mr. Hersey ever indicate he was afraid of anyone?

      No. Of course not. I thought this over. What makes you think he wasn’t mugged?

      Fourteen stab wounds to his upper body and face.

      I felt the blood drain out of my brain again.

      Those kinds of wounds generally indicate prior acquaintance, Riordan drawled.

      I don’t remember exactly all they asked, after that. Irrelevant details, I felt at the time: Did I live alone? Where had I gone to school? How long had I owned the shop? What did I do with my spare time?

      They verified the spelling of my name. Adrien, with an ‘e’, I told Chan. He almost, but not quite, smirked.

      They thanked me for my cooperation, told me they would be in touch.

      Before he left my office, Riordan picked up the empty can on my desk. Tab. I didn’t know they still made that.

      He crushed it in one powerful fist and tossed it in the trash basket.

      The phone started ringing before I could relock the front door. For a moment I thought it was Robert calling in sick again.

      "Adrien, mon chou," fluted the high, clear voice of Claude La Pierra. Claude owns Café Noir on Hillhurst Ave. He’s big and black and beautiful. I’ve known him about three years. I’m convinced he’s a Southland native, but he affects a kind of gender-confused French like a Left Bank expatriate with severe memory loss. I just heard. It’s too ghastly. I still can’t believe it. Tell me I’m dreaming.

      The police just left.

      "The police? Mon Dieu! What did they say? Do they know who did it?"

      I don’t think so.

      What did they tell you? What did you tell them? Did you tell them about me?

      No, of course not.

      A noisy sigh of relief quivered along the phone line. "Certainement pas! What is there to tell? But what about you? Are you all right?"

      I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think.

      You must be in shock. Come by for lunch.

      I can’t, Claude. The thought of food made me want to vomit. I—there’s no one to cover.

      "Don’t be so bourgeois. You have to eat, Adrien. Close the shop for an hour. Non! Close it for the day!"

      I’ll think about it, I promised vaguely.

      No sooner had I hung up on Claude than the phone rang again. I ignored it, padding upstairs to shower.

      But once upstairs I sank on the couch, head in my hands. Outside the kitchen window I could hear a dove cooing, the soft sound distinct over the mid-morning rush of traffic.

      Rob was dead. It seemed both unbelievable and inevitable. A dozen images flashed through my brain in a macabre mental slide show: Robert at sixteen, in his West Valley Academy tennis whites. Robert and me, drunk and fumbling, in the Ambassador Hotel the night of the senior prom. Robert on his wedding day. Robert last night, his face unfamiliar and distorted by anger.

      No chance now to ever make it up. No chance to say goodbye. I wiped my eyes on my shirt sleeve, listened to the muffled ring of the phone downstairs. I told myself to get up and get dressed. Told myself I had a business to run. I continued to sit there, my mind racing ahead, looking for trouble. I could see it everywhere, looming up, pointing me out of the lineup. Maybe that sounds selfish, but half a lifetime of getting myself out of shit Robert landed me in had made me wary.

      For seven years I had lived above the shop in Old Pasadena. Cloak and Dagger Books. New, used and vintage mysteries, with the largest selection of gay and gothic whodunits in Los Angeles. We held a workshop for mystery writers on Tuesday nights. My partners in crime had finally convinced me to put out a monthly newsletter. And I had just sold my own first novel, Murder Will Out, about a gay Shakespearean actor who tries to solve a murder during a production of Macbeth.

      Business was good. Life was good. But especially business was good. So good that I could barely keep up with it, let alone work on my next book. That’s when Robert had turned up in my life again.

      His marriage to Tara, his (official) high school sweetheart, was over. Getting out of the marriage had cost what Rob laughingly called a queen’s ransom. After nine years and two-point-five children he was back from the Heartland of America, hard up and hard on. At the time it seemed like serendipity.

      On automatic pilot, I rose from the sofa, went into the bathroom to finish my shower and shave, which had been interrupted by the heavy hand of the law on my door buzzer at 8:05 a.m.

      I turned on the hot water. In the steamy surface of the mirror I grimaced at my reflection, hearing again that condescending, "But you are a homosexual? As in, But you are a lower life form? So what had Detective Riordan seen? What was the first clue? Blue eyes, longish dark hair, a pale bony face. What was it in my Anglo-Norman ancestry that shrieked faggot"?

      Maybe he had a gaydar anti-cloaking device. Maybe there really was a straight guy checklist. Like those How to Recognize a Homosexual articles circa the Swinging ‘60s. Way back when I’d one stuck to the fridge door with my favorite give-aways highlighted:

      Delicate physique (or overly muscular)

      Striking unusual poses

      Gushy, flowery conversation, i.e., wild, mad, etc.

      Insane jealousy

      What’s funny about that? Mel, my former partner, had asked irritably, ripping the list down one day.

      Hey, isn’t that on the list? Queer sense of humor? Mel, do you think I’m homosexual?

      So what led Detective Riordan to (in a manner of speaking) finger me? Still on automatic pilot, I got in the shower, soaped up, rinsed off, toweled down. It took me another fifteen numb minutes to find something to wear. Finally I gave up, and I dressed in jeans and a white shirt. One thing that will never give me away is any sign of above-average fashion sense.

      I went back downstairs. Reluctantly.

      The phone had apparently never stopped ringing. I answered it. It was a reporter: Bruce Green from Boytimes. I declined an interview and hung up. I plugged in the coffee machine, unlocked the front doors again, and phoned a temp agency.

      Chapter Two

      Silence equals death. This was Rob’s favorite quote when I’d ask him not to come out (or on) to customers.

      I’m running a business, not a political forum here, Rob.

      You can’t separate being gay from the rest of your life, Adrien. Everything a gay man does makes a political statement. Everything matters: where you bank, where you shop, where you eat. When you hold your lover’s hand in public—oh, that’s right...

      Go to hell, Rob.

      And his smile. That wicked grin so at odds with his golden boy good looks.

      Reminders of his presence were everywhere. A rude sketch on a note I’d left him. Sunday’s Times folded open to the half-finished crossword puzzle. A bag of pistachio nuts spilled on the counter.

      I turned on the stereo in the stockroom, and music flooded the store aisles. Brahms’s Violin Concerto: sweet and melancholy and incongruous with the idea of Robert hacked to death in an alley.

      Despite the music it was too quiet. And cold. I shivered. It was an old building, originally a tiny hotel called The Huntsman’s Lodge, built back in the ‘30s. I’d first stepped through its doors on a foggy spring day not long after I’d inherited what my mother refers to as my money.

      I remembered the echo of our footsteps as Mel and I wandered through the empty rooms with the real estate agent. We could have been in two different buildings.

      Mel had seen the holes in the walls, the scarred wooden floors, the money pit. I’d looked past the peeling wallpaper, and the bare and flickering light bulbs in the watermarked ceiling to see the sagging staircase peopled by ghosts from the black and white movies of my childhood. Women in hats and gloves, men with cigarette holders clamped between jaunty smiles. I’d imagined them checking their valises and Gladstones at the mahogany lobby desk that now served as my sales counter. When the real estate agent casually mentioned there had been a murder here fifty years before, I was sold. Mel was resigned.

      He must have seen the S for sucker stamped on your forehead.

      Is that what that stands for? I thought it stood for something a bit more entertaining...

      Followed by one of our brief wrestling matches, which ended unsurprisingly in Mel losing his temper.

      Adrien, are you nuts? There’s mouse crap everywhere.

      Those were the good old days before I knew how much it cost to rewire a two-story building, or how the concept of modern plumbing has changed since the ‘30s. That was before I learned the hard way that you need more to compete with the low prices of Borders and Barnes and Noble let alone Amazon.com. Back before I learned there really is no such thing as Happily Ever After. But I did learn. I learned to stock backlist titles, to invest in variety and selection, to cater to the book groups, and reach out to the community. To put my heart and soul into my business. What I lacked in capital, I made up for in ambiance.

      Ambiance meant placing comfortable old leather club chairs in strategic corners, lighting the fake fireplace on rainy days, and offering iced coffee during the summer. In our quest for ambiance, Mel and I raided local junk stores, lugging home an old gramophone, stacks of 78 records, kabuki theater masks, and a peacock fire screen. Ambiance earned us a write up in the Times Calendar Section, but it was hard work and long hours that kept me in business.

      It was unusually quiet for a Monday morning. A couple of regulars browsed. A new face cleared the shop of all Joseph Hansen’s Brandstetter series. Mrs. Lupinski brought in another sack of Harlequin Intrigues and tried to convince me they were real mysteries. I tackled the stuff Rob had left undone, feeling guilty for the lick of irritation over an unopened crate of hardbacks I’d purchased at an estate sale the previous weekend and the untouched stack of search lists he was supposed to check against the computer inventory.

      I gathered up his scattered belongings. His coffee mug, which read, Drink your coffee—people in Africa are sleeping. A couple of CDs. The razor and toothbrush he left in the washroom for those morning-afters. Most of it I packed in a box for his father, who lived now in a Huntington Beach nursing home.

      I didn’t want to keep playing it over in my mind, imagining what Rob’s last moments must have been like. I bustled around facing books out, cutting strays out of the wrong shelves, pestering customers with offers of help and coffee. Over and over I asked myself the useless but inevitable Why? Why Robert? Why kill him? Robbery? Maybe some coked up junkie? The police said no. The police thought someone Robert knew had slain him. I heard again Detective Riordan’s sardonic, prior acquaintance. Did that mean Robert’s killer was someone I also knew? I remembered Claude’s anxious, Did you tell them about me? Was that the normal reaction of an innocent man?

      It was hard to imagine stabbing a person fourteen times. I couldn’t believe anyone I knew would be capable of that. Easier to believe it of a stranger, a hustler. Easier to believe Rob was the victim of a hate crime or random violence.

      The day dragged. A few friends called asking about Rob, offering condolences, expressions of horror and sympathy, speculation.

      About two o’clock, the silence got to me. I closed the shop and drove over to Claude’s.

      You can’t miss Café Noir. Outside it’s kitschy pink stucco, black grillwork and black shutters. Inside it’s too dark to tell what the hell the decor might be. The floors are like black ice and just about as dangerous; the feathery outline of potted trees was barely discernable in the gloom.

      Claude made clucking sounds when I walked in. He ushered me to one of the high back booths, promised to fix me something special and vanished. It was Monday and the café was officially closed, but Claude never seemed to leave the place.

      I tried to relax. Tilted my head back and closed my eyes. Overhead Piaf trilled, Non, Je ne Regrette Rien. Easy for her to say.

      After a time Claude reappeared and set a plate of linguine before me. The sharp-sweet scent of garlic and basil wafted from the tangle of pasta. He opened a bottle of wine, filled two glasses, and sat across from me.

      Have I ever told you, you look like Monty Clift? he inquired in a deep, seductive voice.

      Before or after the accident?

      Claude tittered. Pushed my glass forward. Red wine. Good for the heart.

      Thanks. I inhaled. This smells heavenly.

      "You need someone to look after you, ma belle." Claude wasn’t smiling. With his sad, brown-velvet eyes he watched me spear a soft-shell crab bathed in tomato and herb sauce.

      I took a bite. I’m a born bachelor.

      Bah! You just need to meet Mr. Right.

      This is one of Claude’s favorite themes. In fact, it’s a favorite theme with a lot of my friends. Gay and straight. Certain things are universal.

      Are you proposing? I batted my eyelashes.

      Be serious, Claude insisted. It’s been how long since What’s-His-Name walked? You’ve been alone so long you think it’s normal. It’s not normal. Everybody needs somebody—

      Sometime? I supplied helpfully. I twirled a forkful of linguine.

      Claude sighed. Propped his chin on his gigantic paw. He watched me eat with an artist’s satisfaction.

      So what really happened between you and Rob? I asked.

      "Quelle est la question? Fireworks then fizzle."

      So? I took a sip of wine.

      So that was between me and Robert. Nobody else. I don’t want cops fucking around in my life.

      That was—what? Six months ago? Why would the cops be more interested in you than anyone else?

      Claude’s eyes slid away from mine. I wrote him ... letters, poems. Some of it was kind of ... dark.

      No pun intended?

      Claude playfully slapped my hand. I don’t expect The Man to understand the creative mind.

      "How dark were these poems and letters?"

      Pitch.

      Swell. You think Robert kept that stuff?

      Claude gnawed on his lower lip. He could be sentimental. In the French sense.

      What was the French sense? I rolled the wine over my tongue, savoring it, and considered Claude. Who was Robert seeing after the two of you split up?

      You should know.

      I shot him a quick look. Rob and I were never lovers.

      Claude shrugged. One of those speaking Continental gestures. He didn’t appear to be convinced. If Claude didn’t believe me, did that mean other people suspected Rob and I were involved? And were they likely to share that suspicion with the cops? Watching me twist another forkful of pasta, he whispered hurriedly, You could get those letters back, Adrien.

      The fork froze a few centimeters from my lips. Say again?

      You’ve got a key to his place.

      Whoa, Nellie. Rob died in the alley behind that apartment building. It’s a crime scene. Or as good as. The cops could be watching.

      "Listen, petit, you’re his best friend. Were. You’re his boss. You could come up with a legitimate excuse for going over there."

      No. No. No.

      I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t—

      "Read my lips. Non."

      Claude fell silent, gazing at me reproachfully.

      I lowered my fork. Is that why you asked me over here?

      "Absolument pas! The idea!"

      Yeah, right.

      He bit his lip. I shook my head. His dimples showed.

      * * * * *

      I unlocked the side door to the shop. Pushed it open against an unexpected weight.

      There were books everywhere: dumped in the aisles, scattered across the polished wood floor. A couple of shelves had been pulled over, the gramophone smashed to pieces beneath. The stack of Decca 78s had been sent flying like Frisbees. One had landed on top of a shelf. Another lay at my shoe tip like a black half-moon. I stooped to pick it up. Bing Crosby and The Andrew Sisters would never warble Life Is So Peculiar again.

      My heart began to thud in a slow heavy pulse beneath my breastbone; the funny thing was that it was more in anger than fear. I took in the counter swept bare of everything except the computerized register, which was bolted into the mahogany. It was unplugged, its drawer open and empty. A coherent thought finally appeared. I went behind the counter, found the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

      My call made, I put the phone back on the counter, took another look at the wreckage. I wanted to break something myself. That was when it occurred to me that whoever had broken in could still be hiding in the shop.

      I grabbed the poker from the fireplace and headed for my office.

      In the office the desk drawers had been pulled out and emptied, the file cabinet locks were broken, their contents dumped. My pills were crushed and sprinkled throughout the papers. Boxes of books, extra stock, now covered the wooden floor like crooked tiles of multicolored murder and mayhem. I slipped and slid my way across.

      Poker raised, holding my breath, I stuck my head in the bathroom.

      White tile, white porcelain, white paper towel dispenser—granted none of it as white as it could have been. The open window looked out on the alley behind the building.

      I yanked the door forward.

      No one lurked in the space between the door and the wall.

      I backed out of the office and headed upstairs. The door to my flat was locked. Maybe there hadn’t been time to pick the lock, but they had been up here. At the top of the stairs sat the grinning skull from the fireplace mantle below. Nice touch. A memento mori.

      I made it halfway down the stairs before my legs gave out. I was still sitting there taking slow careful breaths when Detectives Chan and Riordan showed up.

      Riordan stood surrounded by piles of books like Atlas or some bloke of equally mythic proportions: long legs encased in Levi’s, powerful shoulders straining the seams of a surprisingly well-cut tweed jacket. He looked about himself dourly, all set to reject my application for the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

      Chan hiked up the stairs to me.

      Are you all right, Mr. English?

      Fine.

      Coming back inside here was a bad idea, sir. You should have gone next door and called for help.

      Yeah, I realize that now.

      Can you tell us if anything appears to be missing?

      Money from the register. I stared at the toppled shelves. Light flashed off the scattered pieces of glass from the broken mirror. Was that seven years of bad luck for my burglar or for me? I rubbed my forehead. I don’t know.

      Chan observed me without speaking then turned away.

      They didn’t break in. Riordan rejoined Chan at the foot of the stairs and they held a brief undervoiced conference.

      They must have used Robert’s key, I said, digesting this. I thought of the bathroom window, but it was too small and too narrow, unless the burglar was a pygmy or a monkey.

      Riordan glanced back. Yeah, maybe.

      "Maybe?"

      Chan intervened, always urbane, easy. Why don’t you come downstairs where we can talk, Mr. English? Figure out if anything’s missing. Figure out who might have done this.

      Riordan said, Give me your keys, Adrien. I’ll check out upstairs. Make sure nobody’s hiding under the bed.

      Rob didn’t have a key to my apartment. And I’d have noticed if they’d kicked my door in.

      Let’s just make sure, okay?

      I tossed my keys with more irritation than accuracy. Riordan caught them one-handed and stomped up the stairs past me. We heard him reach the landing. Heard the scrape of the key in the lock. Heard the creak of floorboards as he walked overhead.

      Chan took out a stick of gum and folded it into his mouth.

      In a few minutes Riordan was back with us. I saw him exchange one of those looks with Chan. He lifted a fake Chippendale chair to its feet, shoved it forward. I ignored the invitation.

      You don’t look so hot, Adrien.

      Yeah, well I’m having a bad heart day.

      His upper lip curled in a semblance of a smile. Tell me about it.

      I decided I would. My best friend was murdered last night. My shop was burglarized today. This may be routine for you. It’s not for me.

      Well, he drawled, "let’s talk about that. About Rob. You didn’t tell us everything this morning, did you?"

      There was something different in their faces, in their voices, in the way Riordan was calling me Adrien instead of Mr. English. It started the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.

      I’m not sure what you mean.

      Riordan smiled. Lots of perfect white teeth, like a shark who saw his dentist regularly. Chan said, We were just over at the Blue Parrot, interviewing the bartender when your call came over the radio. We thought we’d clear up a couple of points with you.

      Such as why you lied.

      My head jerked puppet-like toward Riordan. Lied? I echoed.

      The bartender at The Blue Parrot said that you and the vic— Chan corrected himself. You and Mr. Hersey quarreled during your dinner, and that Mr. Hersey walked out and left you to pick up the check.

      I … invited Robert.

      I don’t think that’s the point, do you, Adrien? Riordan inquired. He picked up a copy of China House, studied the two men embracing on the cover, snorted, and tossed it onto an empty shelf. Why didn’t you tell us you had a fight with Robert?

      It wasn’t a fight. It was a … disagreement.

      And eight hours later the garbage men find what’s left of the disagreeable Robert in a dumpster.

      Distantly I wondered if I was going to pass out right there at their feet.

      Cold sweat was breaking out all over my body.

      "You think I killed Rob?"

      There’s a thought. Did you?

      No.

      Sure?

      Of course I’m sure!

      Just relax, Mr. English, Detective Chan said. These are routine questions, you know.

      "What did you disagree about, you and Rob?"

      I scrutinized Riordan. His eyes were hazel, I realized.

      About work, I said. I felt like Rob didn’t take it seriously. He was late, he left early. Sometimes he never showed at all. I’d give him stuff to do and he wouldn’t do it. Petty stuff. I regret it now.

      Regret what? Chan asked alertly.

      Regret arguing with him. Regret our last conversation being a fight over— Tears itched down my cheeks. I wiped them away fast, knowing what these two would make of a grown man weeping.

      The bartender says before he walked out, Hersey yelled, If I’m a thief, fire me. What did he mean by that?

      I viewed them. Chan was chewing gum tempestuously, studying his notepad. He looked tired, but his pudgy lined face was kindly. Riordan on the other hand.... How old was he? Thirty-five? Forty-five? He looked like a guy who expected the worst of people and was rarely disappointed.

      There was money missing from petty cash a couple of times.

      And you thought Hersey might have taken it?

      I just wanted to hear his answer.

      Did you believe him?

      Yes, of course.

      Riordan laughed; a hard sound. Why lie about that? he asked. If you lie about the little things, why should we believe you about the big things?

      "He was my friend."

      He lifted one shoulder. People kill their friends. They kill their wives, their husbands, their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers. They murder their own children. You have to do better than that.

      The most I would have done is fire him, and I wouldn’t have fired him. Why the hell would I murder him? For pinching the petty cash? For being late? Jesus! And you’re supposed to be detectives?

      Chan said soothingly, Sure, you were friends a long time, you and Mr. Hersey. You were best man at his wedding, and when he came back to LA you gave him a job and helped him find a place to live. And became lovers. Again.

      We were never lovers.

      That’s not the way we hear it, Riordan said. We heard you and Rob were hump buddies from way back when Hersey used to cheat off your chemistry exams.

      It occurred to me that I had it all wrong in my book. My cops were too abrasive. Riordan and Chan were courteous and careful. So when the contempt slipped out it was as shocking as a fist in the face.

      I said as calmly and quietly as I could, Robert left before I did last night. He left to meet someone. Didn’t the bartender confirm that?

      Chan snapped his gum. Sure did. Robert left at 6:45 and you stayed and had a second Midori margarita. You left about 7:30. Fifteen minutes later Robert showed up again looking for you.

      Chapter Three

      Tara called that night.

      Tara, I floundered, when I recognized the tight voice on the other end of the line. I was going to call you.

      Two months after Rob split, Tara had miscarried their third child. It made a painful situation worse. It also made for stiff conversations the few times I had been unlucky enough to field her calls.

      In my mind’s eye I could see her as clearly as if I were studying a page in my high school yearbook: tall and slender, pale blue eyes, long blonde hair. The girl who is always picked to play the Virgin Mary in the Christmas pageant.

      You killed him. Her voice was so low I almost couldn’t hear her. When I realized what she had said I felt my hair stand on end.

      What are you talking about?

      You killed him just as surely as if you’d stuck the knife in his chest.

      Look, Tara, I know you’re upset.

      You’re the reason he came back here.

      He came back here because his family’s here. Because he grew up here. Because his friends are here.

      "Because you’re here, Adrien, you faggot. You pervert. Do you think I don’t know? Do you think Bob didn’t tell me about you?"

      The acid in her voice should have melted the phone line. I didn’t know what to say. What the hell had Rob told her? We were friends, that’s all, Tara.

      "Bullshit! Bullshit. We were happy, Adrien. Everything was going great for us. We had a great house. Great kids. A great life. Then you had to come along and screw it all up again." She sounded like she was crying. Hell.

      "Tara, please believe me. Rob called me. I never—I sent a Christmas card every year. To both of you. That’s it. That’s the only contact I tried to make."

      LIAR!

      I held the phone away listening to her scream, "You are a goddamn liar, Adrien. You’ve ruined my life and you’ve killed Bob, so I hope you’re happy. No, you know what I really hope, Adrien? I hope you die of AIDS. I hope you die with your body rotting and your brain eaten away…."

      I shoved the sofa in front of the door, fixed a double brandy and fell asleep watching The Crimson Pirate with Burt Lancaster. But even the vision of Burt in his molded red and white striped breeches couldn’t cheer me.

      It’s never fun knowing another human hates your guts, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had wronged Tara. Not in the way she thought, but I felt guilty all the same.

      About three o’clock in the morning I woke from chaotic dreams to find the lights on and the TV blasting infomercials. I turned off the television and lights, and dragged myself to bed. But once I’d lain down my brain kicked into high gear, and I kept reliving that final scene with Rob.

      To say everything looked brighter in the morning would be an overstatement. For one thing it was pouring rain. Water rolled along the eaves like silver beads and poured off the striped awning. By mid-morning the streets were flooding. You feel rain in a used bookstore. The old pages pick up the damp and mustiness like old bones do rheumatism.

      I dug out the powder blue cashmere cardigan my mother, Lisa, gave me the Christmas before last, pulled on my oldest, softest Levi’s. Comfort clothes, the next best thing to a hug from a warm, living body. Lately there had been a shortage of hugs in my life. Lately there had been a shortage of warm, living bodies.

      It was hard not to be depressed at the sight of yesterday’s assault. Although I’d got the shelves back up with the help of the people who owned the Thai restaurant next door, the empty bookcases and bare walls were a chilling reminder. Suppose I’d walked in on the guy mid-rampage? There are things you can’t insure against. Freaking lunatics are one of them.

      The temp agency sent over Angus Gus Gordon. Angus was a pale, gangly twenty-something with John Lennon specs and a wispy goatee. Whether Angus had heard about Rob’s murder and was unnerved by it, or whether he was just neurotically shy, he seemed unable to meet my eyes for longer than a second. His voice was so soft I had to ask him to repeat himself every time he spoke.

      I put him to work stacking books back on the shelves. I didn’t care if he couldn’t alphabetize. Hell, I didn’t care if he couldn’t read. I just didn’t want to be alone in the shop.

      In the back office, I waded through the drifts of papers: catalogs, old receipts, invoices, shipping documents. Nothing seemed to be missing. There was nothing of value to anyone except possibly the IRS. It felt like the place had been trashed out of spite. I didn’t see why this burglar should have such a grudge against me, but maybe it wasn’t personal. Just an animal instinct for destruction.

      The most unnerving thing was that I knew the police, as represented by Detectives Chan and Riordan, figured I’d faked a break-in to divert suspicion from myself. As Riordan put it, This seems like a lot of trouble for sixty bucks in loose cash.

      You don’t think this is connected with Robert’s murder? I’d demanded.

      Oh, I’m sure it’s connected. he said obliquely.

      Were Rob’s keys found?

      Riordan said reluctantly, as though it caused him physical pain to part with information, No. There were no keys on the body or on the premises.

      Which to his little gray cells could mean that I’d taken them away with me after I’d finished carving up my old hump buddy.

      The only reason I wasn’t already sitting in jail watching Oprah was the cops hadn’t finished building a slam dunk case against me. Imminent arrest, like their stale aftershave, hung in the air following Chan and Riordan’s reluctant departure. They’d cautioned me about remaining available for further questioning.

      I had a locksmith in before lunch to change the locks. The paper came and I read the details of West Hollywood Man Murdered, sitting on the floor amid my sorting. According to the L.A. Times, thirty-three-year-old Robert Hersey had been found in the early hours of Monday, February 22nd, by sanitation workers making their daily rounds. Hersey had been stabbed repeatedly in the face, throat, and torso by an unknown assailant. The murder weapon had not been recovered. Police had questioned an unidentified man observed arguing with Hersey hours before his murder, but had made no arrest. We are still trying to determine the identity of a man Hersey allegedly met later that evening, stated LAPD Detective Paul Chan.

      A hoarse whisper from behind had me starting up off the floor. Angus stood there, glasses glinting blindly.

      Jeez! Don’t do that!

      He was silent for a moment and then croaked, Can I go to lunch now?

      Yeah, of course. What time is it?

      Noon.

      Okay.

      Angus didn’t budge. I felt a tickle between my shoulder blades—as though a knife were aimed at my back.

      How long do I get?

      What?

      How long can I take for lunch? he whispered patiently.

      Oh. An hour, I guess.

      I leaned back, watching him walk through the aisles of books, then I got up, stepped out of the office to see him go through the glass doors past the locksmith busily drilling away.

      The phone rang and I picked it up. It was Bruce Green, the reporter from Boytimes.

      Don’t hang up, Mr. English, he said right off the bat.

      Why not?

      Because I’m trying to help you. My informant tells me LAPD plans to make you the scapegoat for Hersey’s murder.

      My finger hovered over the disconnect button, but I waited.

      You’re gay and that’s good enough for LAPD.

      I don’t believe that, I said. I didn’t know if I believed it or not. Anyway, you’re wasting your time. I don’t know anything. I didn’t kill Robert; that’s the only thing I know.

      You’d better talk to somebody, Mr. English. Tell your story, advised Green. Your next interview with Riordan and Chan will be downtown, take my word for it. They plan to have an arrest by the end of the week.

      I tried to speak around the heart suddenly lodged in my throat. What is it you think you can do for me?

      I can get the support of the gay community behind you. We’ll put your story on the front page: the story of how LAPD is trying to railroad an innocent gay man because they’re too prejudiced and lazy to do their job.

      I thought of my story on the front page, my photo in smudgy black and white, and I quailed.

      Mr. Green, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t have anything to say.

      Just talk to me, Mr. English. Five minutes. That’s all. Off the record.

      No. Really. Thank you, but no.

      You’re making a mistake, Mr. English. Sooner or later—

      Thank you, Mr. Green, but no thank you. I pressed disconnect.

      I went behind the counter and started dialing customers whose search lists we’d matched. There was a 1972 first edition of Robert Bentley’s Here There Be Dragons which had taken nine months to locate, and which I was tempted to keep for myself. A paperback copy of Ngaio Marsh’s When in Rome, several Patricia Wentworth hardcovers: Ah, the thrill of the hunt!

      The locksmith finished up and gave me the new keys. I paid him. A few customers wandered in and then straight out again, put off by our new and highly original floor display. I checked Angus’s re-shelving of the books and was relieved to see he could alphabetize.

      After Angus returned from lunch I boiled water for Cup-a-Soup and returned to sorting through the piles and piles of paper littering the office. A forest’s worth of bills, catalogs, bibliographies, press releases. It seemed as good a time as any to purge the files, do the spring cleaning I’d been putting off for the past couple of years.

      It had been nearly twenty-four hours since I’d heard from Chan and Riordan. No news was good news, I told myself, and hoped it was true.

      I was afraid the reporter from Boytimes was right, that with me as a convenient scapegoat, the police weren’t interested in looking further. Motive and Opportunity. Those are the main two angles in any criminal homicide investigation. Since I had no alibi after leaving the Blue Parrot, the police would certainly conclude I had opportunity. Now they were hunting for motive. I was afraid that motive might be subjective.

      I wondered if I needed to get hold of a lawyer? There was always the family firm. I tried to picture the ultra-conservative institution of Hitchcock & Gracen defending me in a homo crime d’passionale (as Claude would say), and wondered if it might not be easier to just shut up and go to prison. On the bright side, since Lisa only read the Society pages and the Calendar section, chances were she’d never hear anything about this, barring my arrest. For all I knew, I might be able to stall her through the first couple of years of my sentence with the skillful use of phone messages. Do they let you keep your cell phone in prison?

      I sound more flippant than I felt. Each time I considered the real threat of arrest—jail—my brain seemed to flatline.

      Angus turned out to be a hard worker. By late afternoon, he had half the books back on the shelves. Another day or two and we would be back in business for real.

      Bundled in an army fatigue jacket, he appeared in the doorway of the office.

      Mr. English? he mumbled, addressing the shelf above my head. I’m going now.

      I rose, dusting my knees off. Sure. I looked at my watch. Oh, sorry. You should have told me it was so late.

      Do you want me tomorrow?

      Well, yeah. I mean, if you want to come back.

      He gazed at me, owlish and unsmiling. I like it here.

      Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.

      I walked him out, locked the door behind him. Maybe he was just socially backward. Maybe it was his first job.

      Maybe I was imagining things.

      * * * * *

      On Tuesdays, the Partners in Crime mystery writers group usually met in the store after hours to critique each other’s work in progress, tear published writers’ books apart, and argue hot topics like who was bringing what refreshments next time.

      That evening I half-expected, half-hoped everyone would cancel. It didn’t happen. In fact all five members showed up early, with Claude arriving first. He wore a white raincoat, looking as suave as Shaft at a New Orleans funeral.

      "Mon chou, have you reconsidered what we discussed yesterday?" He helped me set chairs in a semi-circle: a fake Chippendale, a fake Sheraton, and four genuine folding metal that pinched your butt if you didn’t sit up straight. Cheap thrills.

      We dragged the long library table to the center.

      If you’re still talking career ops in B & E, no.

      Claude made distressed noises.

      I can’t believe you’re serious about this, I said. The police already suspect me.

      You!

      "Moi. Even if I—"

      We were interrupted by the arrival of Jean and Ted Finch.

      Adrien, you poor baby! exclaimed Jean, giving me a hug.

      The Finches are writing partners, which seems like a surefire way to destroy a healthy marriage, but what do I know? My social life was pronounced DOA many moons ago. She’s small and slim and dark, and so is he; a matched pair, like bookends. They met at one of the Bouchercon mystery conferences. Love among the midlist.

      It’s raining cats and dogs! Ted announced, which gives you an idea of the sort of thing they write. He collapsed a rain-spotted red umbrella, adding, We were sorry to hear about Rob, Adrien.

      Thanks. I felt awkward in my role as bereaved.

      Jean, spotting Claude at the coffee maker, darted away to contest his decision to serve Godiva Cinnamon Hazelnut over Don Francisco’s Moka Java.

      Ted sidled over to me. Do the police know who did it?

      I don’t think so. I’m not exactly in their confidence.

      Jean thinks it’s a serial killer preying on the gay community.

      A serial killer with only one victim?

      It has to start with someone.

      I was still mulling over that happy thought when tall, well-built Max Siddons blew in. Max threw off his yellow poncho, shook himself like a dog, and made straight for the coffee and the chocolate pecan brownies provided by Jean. She giggled nervously as he flirted with her.

      None of that awkward sentimental stuff for Max. I remembered that Robert had hit on Max once or twice when Rob first came back to LA That was before the thing with Claude. Rob had briefly joined our writing group but gave it up after we ran out of eligible men. Max was aggressively heterosexual which Robert had been convinced was just a facade. I never knew exactly what happened, but Max was coldly civil to Robert after the misunderstanding. Luckily duels were no longer acceptable social behavior.

      Studying Max as he flattered Jean out of one side of his mouth and crammed brownies into the other, I wondered just how offended he had been.

      Max finished grazing and sat down with Ted. They held a breezy post-mortem over Rob. Ghoulish but probably inevitable with mystery writers. Wasn’t I standing here considering whether muscular Max would be capable of tossing Robert’s body into a trash dumpster? I shoved aside that mental picture, but as I went to get more pens I could still hear Max and Ted—now joined by Jean—comparing their theories against the newspapers’ conjecture. As they knowledgeably debated the possibilities of disorganized lust murder over organized lust murder, and demonstrated their technical expertise by discussing types of blades, defense wounds, stab vs. slash injuries, I realized that Rob’s death wasn’t real for them. They could have been playing a grisly version of Clue.

      Are we going to get any work done tonight? Grania Joyce demanded while I was in the storeroom.

      If Adrien ever stops futzing around, Max returned easily.

      I’m ready. I left the storeroom, pens in hand and joined them at the circle. Grania, head bent over her manuscript, reached for a pen without looking up. She’s tall, red-haired, the Boadicea type. She turns out hard-boiled feminist stuff and informs me regularly that my writing is anemic. Tonight she wore a T-shirt that proclaimed, Listen to Girls, which we did, settling down to the dissection of the first three chapters of Claude’s The Eiffel Tower Affaire with huffy rustles of paper and under-breath comments from Max.

      * *.*.*.*

      Robert’s funeral was Friday.

      It was one of those perfect days when the Santa Ana winds sweep the smog out over the ocean; the sky looked as uncannily blue as if it had been colorized by Ted Turner.

      The mourners didn’t outnumber the church officials by many. I recognized a few people but most were strangers. Strange to me anyway. Rob had always been popular. Where were the people we had gone to school with? The friends who, like me, stood by while he married Tara in a chapel very similar to this one? Where was all the extended family? The aunts, uncles, cousins? Where were the cronies of the last few liberated months? Claude did not show. Nor any of Robert’s numerous lovers—at least none that I recognized.

      The media were represented by a local news van parked by the cemetery gates. The murder of one gay man was hardly a Stop-the-Presses event. A bored reporter waited outside the vaulted-ceiling chapel kicking pebbles back and forth. There were a few sightseers. And, of course, the police. Detectives Chan and Riordan looked suitably grave in dark suits and sunglasses. I think I did a kind of guilty double take when I spotted them. Chan nodded affably.

      I found a place behind Robert’s father, shrunken in his wheelchair, and Robert’s sisters. The younger one had had a crush on me in junior high. She could barely meet my eyes now.

      Tara sat on the other side of the first row of pews, the kids with her, wide-eyed and scared. She looked like hell beneath her chic Princess Diana hat. Like she hadn’t slept in days. That made two of us.

      My mind kept wandering during the generic service. It was obvious the minister had never met Robert. Rob’s sisters took turns getting up and speaking huskily about his qualities as a brother and husband and father and son. The church felt stuffy, airless. I viewed the rosewood casket. How quickly, how neatly the chaos of a living person could be reduced to an insignificant box.

      When the service ended I hung back while everyone shuffled outside into the windy, sunlit afternoon. I wasn’t sure how Tara would react to my presence. I didn’t feel up to hysterics: hers or mine.

      Adrien? Mr. English?

      I turned around. Next to me stood a very tall man with strong features and black, lank hair. Kind of attractive in a homely way. He offered a hand.

      "Bruce Green. Boytimes."

      We shook hands. His grip was warm, firm.

      I just came by to pay my respects. Brown eyes held mine. Have you changed your mind about talking to me?

      Man, it must be a slow week for news. I broke off as Chan and Riordan materialized beside us. There was an uneasy pause. Perhaps I looked as tense as I felt. Bruce Green gave my hand a meaningful squeeze before letting it go.

      What are you doing here? It came out roughly because I was afraid I knew what they were doing there.

      Chan said quietly, Just paying our respects like everyone else, Mr. English.

      This could be viewed as harassment, Bruce Green said.

      They stared at me. Stared at Green.

      Riordan inquired, And you are --?

      "Bruce Green. Boytimes."

      Their faces said it all.

      Green turned to me. You don’t have to talk to them, you know?

      Chan looked pained. Riordan … well, I momentarily expected a MegaMan reaction of nuclear proportions.

      It’s routine, so they tell me.

      I’ll be in touch. Green’s gaze locked once more with mine.

      I nodded. He gave the cops a curt inclination of his head before turning away and vanishing into the line of mourners still filing out through the double doors. He looked too well-groomed, too well-dressed to fit my image of a reporter.

      Riordan made a sound of contempt. Reporters.

      Chan said, as though it had just occurred to him, Mr. English, were you aware that Mr. Hersey had taken out a sizable life insurance policy a few months before he died?

      No. How sizable?

      People have committed murder for less, Riordan said.

      I was afraid to ask. Who’s the beneficiary?

      Riordan’s brows shot up. Can’t you guess?

      I stared at them dumbly. Whatever I said, I knew they would think I was lying. The more I tried to explain, the worse it would look. It was like being in quicksand. The more I struggled, the faster I would sink.

      Excuse me. I pushed past them, following the scattering of mourners down the slope toward the ornamental lake. The ground was soggy from previous days’ rain. My shoes squelched in the grass as I made my way to the green canopy positioned a yard from the grave.

      I didn’t see Bruce Green in the crowd. I was sorry because I had changed my mind about talking to him.

      I had changed my mind about a lot of things.

      Chapter Four

      Robert’s apartment was not sealed. No official yellow tape stretched across the front door proclaiming it a crime scene. As I hesitated on the walkway it seemed to me that it looked like it had always looked. California standard issue white stucco, complete with yellowing palm trees and the soothing rumble of the nearby Hollywood Freeway.

      I let myself in using my key. Locking the door behind me, I leaned against it breathing softly, eyes straining in the darkness.

      From the other side of the wall came the muffled bawl of heavy metal music, but inside the cold apartment all was silent.

      I didn’t want to risk turning on the lights. I switched on my pocket flashlight and swung it slowly around the room: your typical West Hollywood studio apartment furnished in early Montgomery Ward. A white sofa bed sat across from an oak armoire that doubled as an entertainment center. A Bowflex exercise machine took up half the living room. I glanced over the counter into the kitchenette. There was a sink full of dirty dishes. The apartment smelled stale—worse. I traced the stench to dead flowers in a wine bottle on the counter.

      Pressed for time, I crossed to the armoire. Opening the top drawer, I sifted through the undershirts, underpants: several packs of condoms, shirt studs in a leather box, a packet of drugstore prints. I thumbed through the prints quickly. Tara and the kids building snowmen, raking leaves, celebrating a birthday, trimming a Christmas tree. Life without father. I tucked them back between the Lycra leopard bikinis.

      It was weird going through Rob’s stuff. More painful than I expected. Pretty stupid getting choked up over his sock drawer, I jeered at myself. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. I raked a latex glove through my hair, wincing as fine hairs pulled.

      Rising from my haunches, I moved to the closet. On the upper shelf were two bulging shoe boxes fastened shut with straining rubber bands. When I reached for them a hard and flat object dislodged and fell, whacking me on the head. I swore then waited tensely to see if there was any response to that bump from the apartment next door.

      Nothing. The neighbors were probably deaf, judging by the muted thump of drums and bass guitar. I recognized Great White’s What Do You Do for Love.

      My flashlight picked out a high school yearbook, loose Christmas cards and a dildo. A dildo in a coat closet?

      For God’s sake, Rob! I muttered, as I had been muttering for

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